The Deadliest Bite

by Jennifer Rardin

  Gilded thistles covered the walls and ceiling of the room, the center of which held a Celtic cross framed by four golden lights. I immediately looked to Vayl to see how he’d be affected by the holy sign. He’d noticed it right away too, and was checking the backs of his hands for signs of smoke.

  “Don’t worry,” Raoul told him as he nodded toward the cross. “You’re under my protection here.”

  Vayl stuck his hands in his pockets. “Thank you,” he said. He went to the opposite side of the room, where a door flanked by two arched stained glass windows would let beautiful light in during the day. I tried to gauge his mood by the way his shoulders strained against his suit coat, but it was too hard to tell while his back was turned. So I let my eyes wander to the Tiffany lamp on the heavy rectangular table that sat between the chaise and the bank of windows, which gave the room an unearthly glow. Stately square chairs sat at each end of the table. At a diagonal behind one of them a double throne—I couldn’t think of it in any other terms—waited for its owner’s return. Behind the other a golden cabinet held some of Marie’s most treasured possessions. A book of poetry written in her own hand. A pair of giant pearl earrings surrounded by diamonds. A blue velvet hat trimmed with white fur. A statue of her daughter, Elisabeth, lifting her face to a refreshing breeze, her long hair and ruffled skirts flying behind her.

  Vayl turned, the dimple on his right cheek appearing briefly as he asked, “Jasmine? Is this what you would call over-the-top?”

  I said, “Vayl? This freaking room is the reason royals should be wired with an off switch.”

  Aaron said, “Holy shitsky, this guy’s got a gold dick!” He was pointing at a statue that stood beside the flower-painted doorway we’d entered. The artist seemed to be into helmets and swords but little else in the way of armor.

  “Shitsky?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “Where are you from, Aaron? Sheboygan?”

  “Close,” he said. “My mom was from Madison and I grew up in St. Paul.”

  I crossed my arms. “Nice boys from Wisconsin do not go around killing people. Even after they’ve turned into vampires.”

  He blew his breath out his nose. “That is exactly something my mom would’ve said.”

  “I know. My Granny May was from the Midwest.”

  “Is she in the Thin?” he asked hopefully.

  I laughed out loud. “Hell no! She’s probably in God’s left ear right now, informing him that maybe he should change his gemstone polish, because the pearly gates aren’t looking quite as shiny as they should.”

  Aaron’s smile suddenly made the whole room look dull by comparison. “Mom was just like that!”

  “How about your dad?” I asked.

  Instant sorrow. “Not so much. Dad knew two things. How to brew beer. And how to say yes to Mom. I was fifteen when she died, and then it became my job to tell him what to do.”

  Now I understood how Aaron’s dad had been caught.

  Raoul said, “Your father would have been easy prey, then. A wavering soul is a vulnerable one.”

  The kid dropped his head. “I’ve thought about that. But he’s a good guy.”

  “I know.” Raoul gestured down to the chaise. “According to the plaque, this is the spot where Queen Marie died in 1938. This will be where she returns when I call her.”

  “So that’s what you’re going to do?” I asked.

  I came over to stand by him, staring down at the last cradle of a country’s ruler. It did feel different to me, as if I’d sidled up to the emotional firewall of a woman’s entire life. But I knew that I could reach through if I wanted to. That I could touch the sliver of soul that she’d left behind, that continued to call her back. And it would burn to be so close to such raw humanity.

  I clasped my hands behind my back as Raoul said, “If I invited her back to a place where she habitually walked anyway, we’d all be less likely to become ghost kebabs. You could talk, hopefully make the deal, and then take it from there. If she even—”

  I held my hand up to head off his doubts before he polluted the room with his negative energy. I said, “I’ve sensed it in Brude. She spends most of her time in the Thin. This is the only place that calls her back.”

  Raoul stared down at the plaque mounted on a gold-painted post. “All right, I’ll buy that. But only because you two are the types who make it your job to know. Did you also know that when she shows up to haunt the place, she heralds her entrance with the scent of her favorite perfume?”

  “Which is?” I asked.

  “Violets,” Raoul said.

  “Nope, we missed that. But we’re not surprised. Are we, Vayl?” I asked as my sverhamin came over to join us.

  Vayl came over to stand by us. “Nothing the queen did would raise my eyebrows,” he told us.

  “Good,” replied Raoul. “Because I’m about to bring her here, and I suspect she’d see that as a sign of weakness.”

  “What happened to opening a doorway?” Vayl asked, his voice deepening with frustration.

  “The queen will take you through if you talk fast enough,” said Raoul. He eyed Vayl. “You look frightening enough to curdle milk. I suggest you let Jaz take this one.” Before Vayl could reply he went on. “Marie is a queen, so she’ll probably travel with a retinue. I have no idea how many she’ll bring with her, but they’ll be hungry.” His eyes wandered to Aaron as he finished. “I suggest you stay inside the room until the meeting’s over.”

  “Why would we leave?” asked Aaron.

  “You could be forced out,” Raoul said. “And for my protection to work at maximum strength right now it can’t extend beyond these four walls.” He gestured at the wallpaper as Aaron began looking for something sturdy to hang on to. Then he said, “As soon as she’s accepted your deal, you’ll be all right. But until then, be vigilant.”

  “I was a Boy Scout,” Aaron offered. “Is that anything like ‘Be prepared’?”

  I crossed my arms. “That all depends. What are you preparing to do?”

  He shrugged. I said, “Well whatever it is, just don’t touch the ghosts. Nothing enrages them more than to be touched by the living. They’ll morph from gracious conversationalists into parasitic bloodsuckers right before your eyes. I’ve known them to slice arteries with rage alone. So, you know, if you can’t figure out how to be prepared. At least be polite.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Saturday, June 16, 10:40 p.m.

  While we set up for the queen’s visit, the other (better?) half of our crew took the short hike to Pelisor’s older and oh-baby-grander brother, Peles.

  Astral’s video combined with the Party Line and vivid descriptions by members of what later came to be called the “Bergman Got Balls Expedition” revealed that security around a museum full of priceless artifacts just oozing stories related to Romania’s colorful history is as tight as a miser at Christmas. Which was why they didn’t bother knocking. They parked just off of Str. Pelesului and hit the tree line. Dave and Jack took the lead. Cassandra followed with Astral at her heels, Bergman at her shoulder, and Cole at her back, his gun drawn but hanging at his side.

  “Is that really going to be necessary?” hissed Bergman, his eyes darting nervously from Cole’s nine-millimeter Beretta Storm to the moonlit pines surrounding them and beyond, to Peles Castle, which sat in its valley to their right, sparkling like an amulet full of diamonds.

  “Absolutely,” Cole whispered. “Because you never know when we might be attacked by a horde of Vlad’s impalers. Just imagine it, Miles. Three hundred screaming warriors on horseback, their faces painted with the blood of their enemies, their lances set to pin us against these trees here like a couple of scarecrows.”

  “That’s just… Would you stop with the ridiculousness? That’s not even how it happened back then.”

  Cole shrugged. “Like I’d know. I spent my entire History class trying to convince the teacher that my dad actually found Hitler while he was still alive and that he was the one who shot him. And that my mom
was really Eva Braun. Almost had him convinced too. Then he saw the three of us together at a wrestling tournament, figured out my folks weren’t even alive during World War Two and the whole game collapsed.” Cole sighed. “It was fun while it lasted, though.”

  “Shut up back there,” Dave said. “We’re supposed to be skirting security, and it’s gonna be kind of tough to pull off stealth mode while we’re all laughing.”

  Cole grinned as Bergman gave him a dirty look, which seemed especially to be aimed at his Beretta.

  “It’s just a precaution,” Cole reassured him. “I promise if I have to, I’ll shoot the guns out of their hands just like in the old Westerns.”

  “And then will you sing to them like Roy Rogers used to do?” whispered Cassandra.

  “Only if you buy me a white shirt with fringe and sequins.”

  Cassandra said, “Done,” just as Astral made a matter-of-fact suggestion: “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.”

  They all stopped and stared down at Bergman’s robokitty, who had paused when she noticed Cassandra do the same. She looked up at them and said, “Ghost Riders in the Sky.”

  “What does that even mean?” asked Cole as he peered off into the dark, cupping his shooting hand with his free one and pulling the Beretta up to shoulder height. He went still, raising his nose as if sniffing the air.

  Dave motioned for them to stand perfectly still. Moments later he and Jack had disappeared into the pines.

  “Wow,” whispered Bergman. “He’s good.”

  “He’d better be back soon,” Cole finally whispered.

  “What is it?” Cassandra asked.

  “Something’s here.”

  Bergman slapped his hands against his cheeks like he was trying to wake himself up from a bad dream. “How can you tell?”

  Cole rolled his shoulders as if he suddenly felt the need to stay loose. “It’s hard to describe. It’s like the back of my brain itches. Sometimes, just by the way it’s irritated, I can tell what’s set me off. Like a vampire. Or a fairy. But this time”—he shook his head—“I’m not quite sure.”

  Bergman stepped to his side. “But maybe you could be sensing something innocent. Hunters do that. And you’re kind of a hunter. So maybe it’s a raccoon. Or a frog.” He squinted into the woods. “Ribbit?” he ventured hopefully.

  Cassandra had also closed ranks. But she’d turned so that she could detect movement behind them. “Is your gun going to be effective against whatever you’re sensing?” she asked Cole.

  Cole shrugged. “It’s loaded with holy silver. So it’ll slow down a vamp or kill a Were. It’s just that this thing doesn’t smell like that.”

  Dave and Jack rejoined the group so quietly that even Bergman forgot to jump. “I found the grave site,” Dave said. “But it’s being guarded.”

  “By what?” Cole asked.

  Dave rubbed his jaw, which made Cassandra start to play nervously with her rings. Already, like a good poker player, or a loving wife, she’d begun to pick up on Dave’s stress tells. He said, “It’s a Rider.”

  Cole swore under his breath, another sign of bad mojo. Only Bergman still hadn’t fully caught on to their predicament. He asked, “What’s a Rider?”

  Neither Dave nor Cole acted like he wanted to answer, so Cassandra clasped her hands together, her eyes so luminous she might have been channeling her inner oracle as she told him, “It’s a big, hulking brute that latches on to its victim, digs in, and then sucks out all the thought and emotion, until there’s nothing left but a staring, slobbering husk.”

  “So it’s a vampire?” asked Bergman.

  Cole turned to him. “Think of it as the first vampire. In the same way that scientists consider Neanderthals the first salsa dancers. Not quite, but without that link you’d never have Vayl.”

  “So…” Bergman struggled to stay in the classroom part of his brain. “It’s, what, less evolved?”

  Dave nodded. “It doesn’t turn its victims. It tortures them. Gets into their blood and melds their minds into truth machines. Tell me something, Miles. Have you ever seen a person take a good look at himself in the mirror?”

  Bergman shook his head.

  Dave said, “I did once. Friend of mine, ended up punching the glass so hard he needed twenty stitches to put his hand back together.” He leaned in closer, trying to explain a creature whose power even he had only heard whispers of. “Most of us spend our whole lives tucking our weakness under the mattress, hiding our fears inside the closet, pretending we’re not miserable shits to our spouses and kids. Not because they deserve it. Because that’s just who we are. Riders turn people into horses, jerking the reins so they have to face their own miserable bitchiness, prejudice, and petty crap. The more you fight, the harder those spurs dig in until you’re literally bleeding all over the carpet. Feeding the monster on your back. If you don’t give in, pretty soon you’re dead. But if you can face the horror, walk through your own nightmare without flinching too much, you can buck that Rider and cut his fucking throat.”

  Dave pulled a knife from a sheath he’d hidden inside the pocket of his cargo pants. “So which one of you thinks you can pull that off?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Saturday, June 16, 10:45 p.m.

  I’d heard all the talk in Cole’s camp and it had made me half crazy. It was my job to go decimate the Rider, not hear that one of my crew was about to risk his or her life in my place. Especially since the creature couldn’t have picked that particular cemetery to guard randomly. It had been sent by Roldan and Brude in another attempt to destroy us. I hated that we couldn’t deal with the Rider directly, and that the pain of watching one of our dearest friends fight, and possibly die, in our place would make those two bastards crow.

  Plus I knew Astral’s mutterings about cowboys weren’t random at all, but another push to find Zell Culver. And soon. I wasn’t sure who’d been pulling her strings, and while I appreciated the direction, I also hated the fact that I couldn’t follow it right this minute. But here I was, stuck in rock-around-the-clock mode, circling the lacedraped chaise where Queen Marie had taken her last breath along with Vayl, Raoul, and Aaron like we’d started a game of musical chairs only, damn, somebody had forgotten the props. So we just kept cakewalking while Raoul tried to conjure the stubborn old monarch to the site of her last human breath.

  I could almost see her lying there, surrounded by her children and loyal servants. Mourned aloud even as they silently divided her loot among themselves. That alone would’ve given me reason enough to return. I’d have haunted those bastards to the fifth generation. And I kinda hoped she still scared the shit out of them on a daily basis.

  “So what are we doing?” whispered Aaron. “Is this like a séance?” He held his hands in ours delicately, as if he thought Raoul and I were still pissed enough to break a couple of fingers.

  I said, “I’ve never seen a séance yet that wasn’t three parts stage show and one part bullshit. Real Raisers use an inborn power called the Lure to pull spirits from the Thin. From what I understand it makes them smell extra good to the dead, especially when they’re dancing. It’s like a gazelle flirting with the danger zone of a lion pride. The pride’s fascinated, right? Glued to the picture. But if they’ve already eaten, they just watch. Raisers have a similar ability to convince the spirits they’re stuffed. Since none of us were born with that power, we’re going with this simpler, less entertaining technique.”

  We finally stopped, which must have meant Raoul had coiled our energies around the spot to a satisfactory degree. Aaron’s arms crossed over his chest as he watched my Spirit Guide pull a silver dagger from the sheath hanging at his side. He’d looked so relieved to be able to strap it back on when we were pulling our weapons out of the trunk of the Galaxie that I’d felt a fresh spurt of guilt for making him ditch his uniform. Sometimes you just need your familiars around you. Aaron didn’t see that, maybe because the dagger was glinting like a razor as Raoul put it int
o motion. “What’re you going to do?” he asked.

  “Sacrifice,” I said.

  Vayl grimaced at me. “Must you taunt the boy?” he asked.

  I considered the pudgy youth who still refused to dump his country’s fear of others despite everything he’d seen so far. “Yup.”

  Raoul stepped forward. “Hold your arms over the chaise,” he commanded, just like he’d dropped back into the field and we were his loyal troops. We did as we were told, even Aaron, and Raoul made a small slash above each of our wrists one after another, including his own. Following his lead, we turned our arms so the blood could fall on the lace coverlet, watching the black cloth dampen as the droplets hit and soaked in.

  Raoul said, “Queen Marie Alexandra Victoria of Romania. We beg an audience.”

  He waited. We all did while Aaron looked up, down, and around like he figured a gang of skeletons was going to jump out of a hidden doorway any second now. He whispered, “That’s it? Ring-aroundthe-rosy, blood, and begging, and you think the ghost of a dead queen is just going to drop in on you like you’re her favorite cousins? I should’ve known you guys were a bunch of posers—”

  “Aaron.” One word from Vayl accompanied by a look that could freeze erupting volcanoes, and our tagalong shut the hell up. Just in time for the scent of violets to waft through the room.

  “Do you…?” I raised my eyebrows at Vayl and Raoul. They nodded to show that they’d detected the odor too, stronger now, centering on the chaise under our noses. A rumble shook the room, or maybe it was the whole castle, because we could hear the distant shrieks of a terrified woman. A shiver ran across my shoulder blades and I turned toward the flower-painted door just in time to see two soldiers wearing uniforms I dated to World War II lead a majestic creature through the entryway as if it had been opened and the room prepared for them. She held her head high, as if the spiked platinum crown resting on her rich brown hair weighed nothing more than its gumball machine knockoff. Her blue gown looked vivid against the gold walls I could still see glowing through it, providing a surreal backdrop to the light golden cape she wore over it. Two long ropes of pearls swayed back and forth across her breasts as she walked toward us, followed closely by the rest of her party, two ladies wearing pale pink-and-white lace scarves over their dark ringlets and two more cavalrymen in knee boots over tan trousers and hip-length tunics set off with gleaming buttons and shining swords.